Tom Marvolo Riddle, I am Lord Voldemort
by runningondreams
Summary: The story of a boy who strives for greatness, and becomes trapped in the web of fate and destiny. A Tom Riddle fic, rated for angst and death. On hiatus and under revision.
1. Balance and Destiny

Author's Notes: Hello! This is my first Harry Potter fic; I have a Gundam Wing one too.. Anyway, this is a history of Tom Riddle/ Lord Voldemort; something that I always found a little unsatisfactory about the series was that we never got a reason for his trying to kill Harry, or his reign of darkness and group of Deatheaters. So I decided to write them myself. Besides, I really need to write a Harry Potter fic but I don't understand Harry well enough to do a good job. Some of you might look at what I'm writing and think 'that can't be right, didn't she read the Chamber of Secrets?' but trust me; it'll all make sense at some point (I hope). I did a lot of research for this fic, so if you see something obviously wrong, please forgive me and point it out so that I can fix it. Nicely. There are some rather. ironic things going on in this, or I think they are, but they could have been planned that way. This is from Tom's perspective. you'll figure out what I mean pretty soon.  
  
If you've read Past Hauntings (my GW fic), then you already know something about my writing. If you haven't, well, as a warning there's going to be a lot of angst. Lots and lots of angst. There's also suicidal inclinations, Multiple Personality disorder (sort of) and mmmm. lots of pain. Emotional, usually. Life is not kind to my favorite characters.  
  
Oh, and just so you know; I'm trying to surprise you. ^.~ (Anyone who's read PH, you'll probably recognize this starting bit. I can't help it. It's a really fun way to start a story.)  
  
Chapter 1: Destiny and Balance  
  
Balance. That is something no witch, wizard or muggle can truthfully profess to understand. Dark follows Light, Light follows Dark, war follows peace and peace follows war. Every movement, every action, every decision made has a profound impact on the world and it's future. Wizards, especially divinators, believe they understand this but they are wrong. To truly understand Balance one must first understand Destiny, and nothing is ever as simple as believed. Even Merlin, the greatest wizard to ever set foot in our world, couldn't understand the truth of Destiny, though he did have a better understanding than most. He was, after all, a tool of destiny, and some part of him always knew and understood, as I do.  
  
The proud, 'pure' wizarding families try to distance themselves as much as possible from the muggle world, having only contempt for its occupants. For what reason? They cannot perform magic. They will not trust, accept, or tolerate any form of what is a natural way of life for some folk. The high, 'noble' families forgot long ago that everything had to have begun somewhere and, if it wasn't for a tired old wizard and his dream of a joining between Avalon and earth through a boy and his magical sword, they would still be slogging through a world of dull dreary life with magic only a glint of something frightening on the horizon. They have even forgotten that the distrust originally stemmed from the tradition of only noble folk receiving the magical training, enforced later with witch burnings. They have forgotten that once, in the long ago past, to be a wizard or witch was to have consorted with the faeri folk, to have faeri blood in ones veins; to be immortal. It has become a habit, a tradition that lost meaning in the shrouding mists of time. But it prevents them from remembering the reason for their existence, and the reason why so many tools of destiny have passed on when they should have lived until the end of time. Because so many wizards persist in ignoring muggles, or watching only parts of their world, they have failed to realize truly how much the non-magic world effects their own. All throughout history there are parallels, actions played out over and over again, once in the muggle world and then, sometimes years later, in the wizarding world. Everything that happens in the non-magical earth must also happen in the magical Avalon. And no one except the tools of Destiny can see it.  
  
Merlin tried to bind the two worlds together, to end the repeating parallels, in Arthur Pendragon, son of Avalon and Earth by mother and father, brother to the sorceress Morgan Le Fay. But Arthur was too much of Earth, could not understand the reasons for bringing the worlds together with his limited understanding of his sister's home. Indeed, with the belief in magic dwindling with the coming of the Church, he saw no reason to. Not only would half of the magical world cease to exist if joined so closely with the non-magical, but he would also lose the support of his people and the Church and thus, his throne. Merlin, as a Son of Avalon, could not perform the binding himself, and eventually died, his purpose living on until another could pick it up.  
  
As time continued it's relentless march many wizards and witches felt the hand of destiny and tried to complete the binding, achieving a kind of elastic band between worlds until they were almost overlapping, the realms nearly bound. But someone made a mistake, and science entered the muggle universe. After that, everything that had been built up over the years, the trust between muggle and wizard, the circle nearly completed with only one last nudge to make two worlds whole, it all shattered apart and destiny gave up on wizards.  
  
Instead, it started on the muggles. Because they were immersed in the coming of technology, drowning in mathematical and logical arguments, the first few tools did not fare well, dying early deaths because of the peoples' distrust. As more time passed by, Destiny found a way to get around this block. Stories. If something was told or written as a story, there was no reason for the muggles to not listen, to accept the tales and teachings of magic. In the lost years the worlds had begun to drift apart once more, but the stories stabilized them, didn't bring them any closer, but prevented them from drifting further. No muggle was a true binder but all had brushes with destiny; that was all that was needed until a true binder could be found. A child of the light and dark, muggle and magic so deeply ingrained that they would finish the binding without realizing their actions. But first, there had to be one more failure, one more binder who understood the purpose. That last binder would be me, and the fates have been kind enough to allow me this message to the world; the world I hope to achieve. By telling my story I hope to inspire enough belief to tide the worlds over until the final binder can perform his task. My methods have been found harsh and cruel and I need to explain myself. After all, things are never only what they seem to be.  
  
Notes: Did you like it? I know it doesn't make much sense now, but I plan on getting more up soon, and it will start to make more sense. If you're reading this to figure out what I've been doing instead of Past Hauntings, please don't kill me. I'm on an inspiration high for this and cannot concentrate on Gundam Wing. I don't quite know where I'm going to end this yet. so I have no idea how long it will be. Please review! Even if you are totally confused I want your feedback! ^.^  
  
Disclaimer: I'm borrowing little bits of ideas from all over the place, but the plot itself is mine, as are any original characters and unfamiliar spells. 


	2. Tom Marvolo Riddle

Author's Note:  WHEEEEEE!!! I am out of school for the summer!!!!

So, did you like it? I just love starting off a story like that! It's so much fun!  Anyway, this is still mostly background. Parents and birth up to the orphanage …  the last chapter was really more general background stuff…. Sort of. There is angst here, you have been warned. Not as bad as some future chapters, but it's there.    

Thanks go to CJ and cherrycola69 for their reviews, I love you guys! (All you Harry/ Draco fans, cherrycola69 has an absolutely awesome fic called Mine that you should all read… beautiful writing and a sequel in progress! Mixture of angst and romance.. Anyway, go read it. ^.~ Also a new fic called This Side of Me: very nice!)  YES!!! Fifth book finally coming out!! Yippee!!

You would not believe what I got last week: The Sorcerer's Companion, a guide to the magical world of Harry Potter. That has got to be one of the coolest books in the world! I love it and I'm busy reading it: it's been a wonderful help for this story.  And I think Arithmancy is my favorite subject now.  You people should try it sometime: very cool. Tom Riddle turned out almost exactly as I have him mapped for this story!! I don't know whether to thank the gods for giving me the inspiration or praise J.K. Rowling as a genius.  If she's thinking the same personality as I came up with, it would get really, really weird. (For those of you that don't know, Arithmancy is a form of fortune telling, using numbers assigned to the letters and then adding up the values of names.  Awesome.  I'm thinking of doing a fic where I post the arithmancy (learned from said book) of all the HP characters.  Sounds appealing but I don't know if people would like it.  I certainly do but I'm content with keeping my amazing discoveries to myself most of the time.) 

If I get any research wrong, or there's anything you think I really need to be aware of (England, 1930's) PLEASE TELL ME!!!

Finally, I really do not know a lot about twins.  I am not a twin and have not know very many closely.  So I'm going to do my best but if I totally screw up somewhere then please tell me.  

**Warning: angst, much angst, and death. Don't flame me about it, I warned you.**

Disclaimer: Really, does anyone honestly think I could ever own Tom Riddle? Or any part of the Harry Potter world for that matter? Didn't think so.  Just the plot.  

Chapter 2:  Tom Marvolo Riddle

(A/n: just so everyone knows, if any of this seems to be beyond the scope of what someone should know of their parents (and it probably will), just remember that Tom **is** a tool of Destiny: he's allowed a little more understanding than most people. He has to know all parts of his past to be the person he is. Also, his mother liked to tell stories, as you will see.)   

Love is an amazing thing.  It can blind or reveal.  It binds people together with something that can't be put into words.  Love can be wonderful, a beautiful dream that carries you away as if you were floating on a cloud, or it can be painful, sending you to the brink of despair and leaving you there with nothing to hold onto when the last straw hits and you topple over it. It can be used to manipulate and influence. There is a very fine edge to walk in love, between bliss and pain, the line between love and hate is miles wide by comparison.  But sometimes the two affect each other, love becoming pain instead of bliss and progressing on to hate.  My parents loved each other, and they taught me how dangerous it was, to trust another person so completely.  Not that I actually learned the lesson until many years later.

My father came from a very old, traditional muggle family.  For generations they stood aloof, not lowering themselves to deal with 'common' people or even leaving their ancestral home for anything less than crisis.  They trusted technology even less than they trusted magic.  My father was the only child his parents had and they tried to give him anything he could want, without letting him out of their sight.  But what Tom Riddle really wanted was to travel; to see the world and experience its enchantment untainted by the years of dusty opinions and watching from afar that coated his daily life.  His parents protested, declaring that a Riddle had no place there, no need to travel when they could watch the world turn from the comfort, peace, and safety.  But my father didn't particularly care.  His parents were too used to giving him his own way to have the strength to stop him.  

So Tom Riddle set out to see the world.  He traveled around Europe for a few years, and when the Great War started he was ready.  He was old enough and fit enough to make it in the army.  After the war, four years later, he was recovering from a bullet wound to his leg when he met my mother.  

Silva Slytherin did not share her ancestor's distaste for muggles.  Actually, at that point in time she pitied them.  Only muggles could get themselves involved in something so stupid as a war involving the entire world and celebrate the men who had killed thousands because they were on the side that won, and the side that won was always right.  So, in order to put her conscience at rest, she decided to do something to help them, which is how she ended up nursing wounded soldiers back to health.  

Mother always said that it was love at first sight, but I think that was just her opinion.  Father, if he ever heard her saying so, would laugh, give her a hug and agree, only to tell me later that she may have been in love at first sight, but he had been extremely annoyed to have a young teenage girl caring for him rather than an experienced nurse who knew what she was doing. Of course, that didn't stop him from asking her out the day he was released from the hospital.   

I have never been able to figure out what my parents ever saw in each other.   Father was five years older than Mother, and if not for the blatant fact that she loved until she died, I would have said that my mother married for money.  Not that she particularly needed it; the Slytherins were quite well off before the line died out.  As for my father, I think the main reason he married my mother was for her beauty.  She was of a good bloodline, she had money, and she was very beautiful.  His parents couldn't refuse the match.  And they had to agree that with her sparking blue eyes, silky black hair, slim body, and seemingly little want for anything but what they offered, she could make fine contributions to the Riddle line.  Namely beautiful, intelligent children.  Of course, this was before any of them knew she was a witch and the reason she didn't have any records of her education was not because she had been privately tutored, but because she had attended a School of Witchcraft and Wizardry somewhere in central Europe.  And my mother, far more intelligent than she ever let her new relatives realize, managed to keep it that way for quite some time.  

My parents were married four years after they met, on a beautiful spring morning in May of 1922.  My mother was 18.   Old Riddle Sr. and his shrewd wife expected to be grandparents within the year.  A year went by and they received no indication that Silva was even pregnant, or had been at any point.  When they confronted Father about it he could only say that he didn't know what the problem was.  They should have had a child by that time.  

Mother was keeping herself from getting pregnant, terrified of childbirth and the problems a child would create in what she viewed as the perfect life; particularly since any child of hers was sure to be magical, and would have no way or reason to not use that magic at any time.  Wizard children aren't exactly known for their self-control.  But eventually she had to give in; she loved my father too much to deny him the heir he wanted.  So, after two years of near blissful marriage, she stopped drinking the anti-fertility potions, fully intent on going through with the pregnancy that would inevitably result.  But in the end she just wasn't ready.  Over the next year my mother was pregnant twice; the first time she wasn't able to carry the child to term, due to the lingering effects of the potion. My parents cried over my unborn sibling, and my mother was extremely careful the next time she found herself pregnant.  She was not going to risk losing her second child as well and was determined to go through the pain and inconvenience for the sake of her husband. Of course the expecting grandparents were ecstatic when it was discovered that she was carrying twins.  

The details of the nine months before my sister and I were born have never been revealed to me, but the night of my birth is remarkably clear.  Mother told me once that that night was the night she lost the man she loved.  It was the night that Tom Riddle fell out of love with her, even if it took her years to realize it.  That night she revealed the fact that she was a witch.  She didn't mean to of course, she never meant for him to find out much less on the night of his children's birth.  But it just happened.  Even though, or perhaps because, she had worked as a nurse in a muggle hospital, Mother was extremely nervous about giving birth in one; she was positive that they would make the process entirely more troublesome and painful than it was worth. All she wanted to do was call a medi-witch to the house to help her.  No need for all the fuss.  Of course that would reveal to her mistrusting relatives that something was wrong, and she simply couldn't refuse the pleading in my father's eyes when he begged her to go to the hospital. So she went. When the contractions really started she regretted the decision and started screaming at him; first in anger, then pleading and all but demanding that he go back to the house and get the wooden stick that was in the back right corner of the drawer of her bedside table.  My father, completely confused asked her how in the world that would help.  And that was when she made the mistake, too delirious to stop herself.  In a fit of what she later labeled pain induced insanity, she told him that she was a witch and if he would just give her the god-forsaken wand then she could take care of the whole business herself, thanks much.

She didn't see him until a few days or so after our birth. By that time she'd named us and almost given up on him; no matter how it broke her heart, she needed to take care of the two of us.  But he came back, all smiles and apologies, claiming it was just such a shock to him, and could she ever forgive him for leaving her like that?  Mother, in her turn, was all but begging him to forgive her the moment he walked through the door.  

I don't believe he ever did.

* . * 

    The earliest memory I have is from when I was around four years old, and it's not exactly a happy family memory.    

*

The slivers of glass are sharp under my small fingers as I try to find every piece of what was once a simple looking glass. /_Seven yeas bad luck_/ I'm on my knees, sinking slightly into the rich dark carpet of my parent's bedroom, hoping I won't have to dig any razor edged chips out of the long strands.  I can see the thin streams of blood flowing from the cuts on my hands, disappearing into the burgundy rug, the wounds don't hurt yet, they're too fine for that.  I know that they'll sting horribly later.   I place each section in its part of the frame; father insisted that it was the only way to make sure I got all the pieces, I consider it impossible anyway.  I run my small fingers through the carpet, searching for any last bits before settling back on my heels with a sigh. The door at my back opens softly and I can hear Kaya's soft footsteps towards me.  She crouches down, a warm presence at my side, and takes my hands. She says something, but I can't remember what, and dabs gently at the cuts with a washcloth.      

*

Kaya, my twin sister, was an amazing person.  She understood things, things no child should have been able to understand she took in without a blink.  Such as the way we were forced to grow up quickly, no time to experience childhood. Not with Mother in the state she was.  When I was sad or upset or frustrated or hurt, Kaya always knew exactly what to do to make me feel better. Even at the age of four we already had a sort of understanding about our 'grown up relatives'. Mother needed to be taken care of, Father was not to be trusted with secrets or complete truth, and our grandparents must never suspect that we were anything but normal children. Father was too ashamed to tell them and Mother knew better than to encourage her in-laws' wrath, so we kept silent, controlling emotions as well as we could. Not that we really needed to worry too much, as neither of us used magic very often in our early life; I discovered very early on the magic I could perform, Kaya following closely after, but after the initial burst nearly everything we did was intentional. Healing was what Kaya did most, loved most. She almost encouraged me to get myself into as much trouble as I could just so she could patch me up.  So of course, I did; I never even tried to resist.  That was just the way we did things, she trusted everything I did to have some sort of reason behind it, to mean something to me if no one else, and I trusted her to clean me up and smile at my recklessness.  I depended on her for that, and other things.  I depended on her to be there to comfort me, to help me to understand the things I couldn't see any reason for. She was the warm presence at my side that always spoke reason, was always reaching out to help others.  And she depended on me to listen to her, to love her unconditionally and to remember her forever, no matter what happened. She needed me to enforce her, to make sure she got the things she set out to do done, and to be my short tempered, extremely emotional self. 

We clung to each other like burrs, supporting and encouraging each other when there was no one else to do so.  Mother, loving and intelligent as she was, couldn't give us that support and trust.  She had invested all her trust, all her support and hope and love into our father.  And she didn't think she had or didn't have much left for us.  Oh she loved us, she played with us and taught us to control our magic and told us stories about our heritage and the history of the wizarding world, but she couldn't put enough emotion into her feelings for us to _understand_ us.  She couldn't know us enough to truly care as she did for Father.  

So we cared for her.  We, well, we used her, in a way, and protected her.  Not the same way Father used her but using her all the same.  We could see, even if she couldn't, that Father didn't love her as she thought he did, or at least he was more intent on the pain side of love than the bliss.  And we knew that some day it would be too dangerous to stay any longer where he could touch us.  So we waited, neither of us brave or strong enough to plant the idea of leaving into her head. There was a sense of expectancy around us, an almost tangible haze that Kaya tried to identify and pack into a neat little box.  I just accepted that we didn't have lots of time, no more than a few years, and tried to ignore the tingles it sent up my spine. 

 We extracted as many stories out of Mother as we could; seizing the time we had to learn as much as possible about the world, our family, and magic.  Mother loved to tell those stories, especially while we worked in the garden (or she worked and we asked questions while playing with the plants; not to mention the occasional snake).  We nearly lived in that garden; eating picnic meals, working and playing in the sun all day, and Kaya and I often fell asleep out there. I especially loved it when the snakes visited, usually on sunny summer days.  The first time Mother found me talking to one she was ecstatic, kept going on about how I was a true descendent of Salazar Slytherin and a Parseltongue.  It confused me; how could I do it when neither Mother nor Kaya couldn't?  There had to be more to it than just bloodlines.  But Mother didn't know the answers, and for once Kaya was the one pointing out that we really didn't have the resources to figure it out so I should just stop worrying about it.  I tried to ignore it, really I did, but something about being Slytherin's heir made me nervous, as if I wasn't in control of my own life anymore.  I wasn't of course, but that was information I didn't fully realize until much later.  

All stories were told when Father wasn't home; once he came home, Kaya and I had to protect Mother.  Nothing obvious or truly preventive, but we stayed within sight and hearing at all times, usually begging him for attention; we hugged him and I pleaded for him to throw me into the air and twirl me around, and Kaya demanded to be read to and we took up as much of his time as we could so that he couldn't hurt Mother.  Not that there weren't other reasons, he was still our father, and no matter how we wished he wouldn't play with Mother's emotions so, we still loved him and craved his attention and love in return. Eventually he would send us off to bed and we would huddle together under the blankets, praying that he was in a good mood, that he wouldn't reduce mother into the sobbing, desperate wreck we found more and more often as the years went on.  

The situation grew worse and worse; he started to ignore Kaya and me, shouting and arguing with mother right in front of us.  He stopped allowing her even slight use of her magic, asked did she want him to betray his parents? It was so hard for him to lie to them; did she really want to make his life so miserable?  And Mother cried and said no, no, she would never wish that, she loved him with all her heart, she'd stop using magic. He restricted her further and further, until she was barely allowed out of the house; he was rarely home anymore but when he did come back he didn't have time for games.  He didn't have time for Mother's love or Kaya's stories, or my pranks.  He hit me first, I think.  When I was five I broke a vase that had been a wedding present from our grandparents.  It wasn't badly broken, only about five pieces, and I was putting it back together, hoping that Kaya would come help me soon because it was really complicated to fit the pieces together intentionally.  Father came up behind me, blocking my light, and I looked up to the utter fury in his eyes.  He didn't say anything, just stared down at me until I stood up; somehow he managed to convey both his disappointment in me for breaking the vase and his rage at my using magic to try and fix it.  Then, once I was properly chastised, he reached out and slapped me across the face.  I stared up at him in disbelief and horror as tears welled in my eyes and threatened to spill over.  His gaze didn't waver it just, changed, somehow, and he spoke. 

"That was for the magic, Marvolo.  It's a weakness, it's barbaric.  A Riddle has no use for weakness, and a Riddle takes responsibility for his actions do you understand me Marvolo?"  I didn't move. He hadn't taken responsibility for marrying a witch had he?  Maybe he had, in his way.  Perhaps he thought that the best thing he could do was to be sure she never used magic again.  I can see, now, some of the reasons why he was so insistent about magic. I think, on some level, he was terrified to be within fifty meters of the house sometimes, what with the political situation then.  Not that I understood any of that then. 

"Marvolo?" I nodded hesitantly, still a little shocked by both the fact that he had hit me and that, for the first time in my life, he was talking as if I really were his son and not some child he got stuck rearing.  Then again, he was still calling me Marvolo, after my mother's father.  I didn't know whether to be pleased or hurt.  Not that it mattered, he'd already turned away, and I was left to ponder alone until Kaya came looking for me. 

That wasn't the last time he hit me, and it wasn't long before Mother and Kaya also came under his hand.  

I think we were all in denial, really.  None of us, not Mother, not Kaya, not me, none of us could believe that it would progress beyond hitting, that any of us were in any truly threatening danger.  Even as Father's temper grew shorter, and the laughing Tom Riddle my mother fell in love with, the man who spun me though the air laughing, faded behind a cold mask we couldn't quite bring ourselves to face the truth.  

I never blamed myself for it.  I might have been able to do something if I had been just a little more observant, but I was only six.  Besides, the only person I really could blame was him.  He claimed it was an accident, he cried and wailed and cursed fate but I had seen the look in his eyes when he saw them lying so still, the faintest flash of disappointment when he met my eyes and found me staring at him in shock.  I saw the shock and anger when Mother, with her last wishes, moved me forever beyond his reach.  And I noticed his display of emotion at the funeral, a play for the mourners as I stood and watched silently, unable to grieve the two people closest to me, numb from shock and pain and disbelief.  

An accident the officials said.  A driver who couldn't stop.  

Five seconds difference between Kaya, and myself four seconds between Kaya and Mother, Father was still on the walk, fifteen seconds away from me.  Fifteen seconds between two living, one mortally injured, and one dead.  My sister was killed on impact, too shocked and used to pushing it away to let her magic save her.  Mother had run towards her, trying to shield her and only managing to get hit herself.  I stared in shocked surprise unable to react in the brief instant. Then I lifted my eyes deliberately.  I had to see.  And I met my father's eyes, saw the complete lack of shock as the driver swore and clambered out of his vehicle. He had known what was coming, had seen the monstrous thing bearing down on us and hadn't thought to warn them, hadn't remembered or cared that Mother didn't know about muggle traffic, that Kaya was only six and hadn't been away from the secluded area we lived in for some time.  He had let them get hit, killed them, and his only regret was that I hadn't died as well.  

He didn't speak to the driver, just stared at me as he let an expression of shock and horror take over before facing the man.  I blacked out, only to wake later in the hospital, Mother lying still on the bed beside me, Father gripping her hand tight enough to nearly break it and sobbing.  She lasted two days, waking twice in that time.  The first time she just looked at my father, evaluating him, watching him, and finally coming to terms with what he was.  The second time, she asked, with a doctor and two nurses as well as five patients (not including myself) as witnesses, that I not be allowed back into his care, but put into a home for children.  

I was six and a half years old and had lost my twin sister and mother in one terrifying moment.  I had also been given my first true taste of helplessness, my eyes had been opened to the realities of the world: that the people who know more, who have more power, are the ones who get their way.  And I had already felt the first flicker of helpless rage and hate as I took a small trunk of clothes and a few simple books and walked away from the man I had once called Father.  I would find a way to get my revenge, and I would make sure that no one was ever able to control my life so completely ever again.  

Not that any of my life could ever really be under my control, but I didn't know anything about that yet.  I was still young enough, still innocent enough, no matter what the circumstance, to believe that fate couldn't ever be fixed and I could hold my own future in my hands. 

Notes: please leave a review! I know I haven't really explained about Destiny and everything yet but give the kid a break, he's SIX!! More angst ahead, and expect the next chapter up sooner.  I'm juggling with Past Hauntings (If you like Gundam Wing, I'm begging you to go read it. . . and leave a review of course!) so it won't be immediate, but it will be soon.  I have a lot of free time, and Harry Potter is taking over my mind, as you could tell by the number of fics I have added to my favorites list. 

Please review, it means so much to me and it only takes about a minute. ^.~  (I'm sorry it has taken so long to get this up, I was done earlier but ff.net was not letting me upload! Sorry!) 


	3. Orphan

**Author's Notes**: Hello. That's all I have to say on the matter. 

Thanks to **Diiniami** for reviewing! I never knew two words could be so encouraging!

**Warnings**: well . . . umm . . . angst, definitely angst.  And . . . err . . . my overwhelming urge to make it as realistic as possible, resulting in large amounts of research that isn't as detailed as I'd like it to be. No, this is not a History lesson; it just isn't the year 2003 either. 

**Disclaimer:** Yes, I own Tom Riddle.  He's manacled to the wall of my basement and I'm extracting the story of his life out of him with fluffy bunny rabbits, rainbows, pink ponies, yellow daffodils and magic markers.  * shudders * beware the magic markers, they're evil I tell you. 

(No, actually that's just for my mom who complains that there aren't enough fluffy bunny rabbits, rainbows and flowers in my stories.  And my need to put a shot of humor out there. As far as I know, Tom Riddle is out wrecking havoc in the wizarding world and doesn't belong to anybody with the possible exception of the nice lady he met in the coffee shop who decided she didn't like him and wanted to write about his arch-nemesis instead. (aka J.K. Rowling and all other parties she chooses to share with.) I do, however, own this version of his past, so if something comes up in the next few books that looks like this in any way shape or form, it's not my fault.  I thought of it on my own so no touching.)

Looks like I couldn't stop from rambling after all. 

Chapter 2: Orphan 

The lady who had come to get me was a quiet woman with curling brown locks and shining chestnut eyes.  She hadn't spoken to me for the entire train ride into London, hadn't explained a word of what I could expect when we arrived.  She gave off a thoughtful, troubled air that discouraged talk.  So I followed her through the twisting streets and back ways until we reached the orphanage on the edge of the city. 

It turned out to be a flat, a flat that looked just like all the others on the street, with the possible exception of a sense of wildness about it.  As if anything could happen there.  It was also rather forbidding, discouraging all strangers. 

I hesitated before following her up the short gravel walk, instinctively cringing as I stepped onto the creaking gray porch.  I was sure they would send me back to my father.  It seemed unnaturally quiet, as if the place was holding its breath, waiting for me to be judged.  And then the silence was broken and a red comet crashed through the rattling screen door and leaped into the lady's arms, shrieking in gibberish.  Once it was still I was able to recognize a red headed boy about a year or so older than me wearing red overalls over his bare, suntanned chest.  He was chattering so fast I was amazed he could breath.

"Miss Jessica! You're back, where'd ya go Miss Jessica? I missed you! Where'd you go, did ya go to auntie's? Is that where you was? Gretchen caught a toad in the garden and we was playing with it, but then Davy saw the snake again. It's still there Miss Jessica and now we can't go back out there 'cause Ms. Sara barred th' door and th' girls are scared they'll get bit an' who's that?"  He was looking at me.  I just stared back silently, not sure how to react. The lady, Miss Jessica apparently, patted the boy on his back and lowered him to the wooden planks of the porch.

"Lets go inside George, and I'll introduce him to everyone, all right?" the red head, George, nodded sullenly before grabbing Miss Jessica's hand and all but dragging her into the house, screaming, "Miss Jessica's back everybody! Miss Jessica's back, and she brought a new kid!" I stood just inside the doorway, trying to push away all my nervousness and the fear that they'd send me back.  Kaya would. . . but no, Kaya would never comfort me again. I struggled against the tears, forcing myself to remember the one meaningful thing my father had ever said to me.  Tears showed weakness.  And I was not going to let these strange people see my weakness. A new voice drew back to the present as the other children crowded around Miss Jessica, clamoring for attention. 

"Now now, children, show some manners, we have a new housemate here and you're ignoring him dreadfully."  This came from a large, motherly looking woman standing in a doorway on the other side of the room.  Delicious smells drifted out from behind her.  The children stopped to stare at me and I could only study my feet as I felt the heat rise on my face, the new leather of my shoes bright against the dull gray carpet.

"Don't be frightened dear, come all the way in." The large woman was motioning me in further with one meaty paw.  I hesitantly stepped forward and looked up at the children and Miss Jessica before quickly turning my gaze back to the unknown woman.  She seemed the least threatening at the moment.  She came to stand behind me, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Here child, what's your name?" 

"Tom." 

"Surname?"

"Riddle."

"Riddle? Well that is curious, the Riddles are a proud family, when did you lose your parents lad?"

"Mother died last week, after Kaya." 

"Was Kaya your little sister?"

"Kaya was, is, my twin." Her eyes filled with pity.

"You poor boy. What about your father Tom? What happened to him?"

"Mother didn't want me to stay with him." She nodded in sympathy.

"Poor child, your wounds are too fresh for you to have felt them yet hm?" I nodded quietly, struggling to hold back my tears in the face of this new kindness. 

"Well, we'll do our best to make you feel at home.  I believe you've already met Jassica and George?"  I nodded again, lifting my chin to study the children who were watching intently. She pointed to each of them in turn.

A girl with distrustful hazel eyes and dark brown hair short enough to pass as a boy was Gretchen, the blond boy behind her, pulling is Irish walking hat over green eyes, was Davy.  Jack had a black eye that his wild brown hair courageously tried to cover, but the uninjured eye shone darkly with laughter.  Becca was studying me intently through fig green eyes as she chewed on one straggled strand of dirty blonde hair, and Rosie's red hair was a rival for George's, her blue eyes curious but timid.  

"Children, this is Tom.  I expect you to treat him fairly as a member of our family, do you understand?" They nodded.

"Good, now, Jessica will you help him get settled in? I need to finish supper before the older ones get back." Miss Jessica nodded and picked up the small trunk that held all my worldly belongings; the few clothes they had let me bring, my old baby blanket, the cheerful designs of flying dragons faded from use, there weren't any toys, I wasn't allowed to bring any, but I did have my favorite book (Peter Pan, by J. M. Barrie), and in the bottom, where no one would find it, I had a letter from my Mother that I was supposed to open when I got accepted at school (it was very useful later, but then it just confused me). I followed her up the rickety stairs to a small room with six small beds in it.  Five of the beds had small trunks at the foot, and Miss Jessica put mine at the end of the sixth. 

"This will be your bed while you are here Tom.  George, Davy and Jack will be sharing a room with you along with the to older boys, Fritz and Jem.  The older children work during most days, they'll be home in a bit.  The girls are across  the hall and the restroom is downstairs off the kitchen.  You are expected to bathe once weekly, no exceptions, and you must be in bed by eight every night.  Classes will be held in the main room downstairs from seven to noon, and breakfast is served at six. If you are not up in time you won't be fed 'til lunch. Do you have any questions?"  The bed was old and creaked when I sat down on it, the blankets worn thin and ragged. I glanced up at her from my study of this new domain and shook my head.  I couldn't think straight enough to know what to ask.  

"If you think of anything later, it's safer to ask Sara.  She's more likely to have the answer you need."  Sara was the lady in the kitchen.  I nodded again waiting for some clue as to what I was supposed to do next.  

 "Why don't you change into something more comfortable and come downstairs.  Supper should be served soon." She left. 

I perched on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, taking in my surroundings.  The flat was old, of medium size, and in an unstable state of repair. I wasn't quite sure what I had been expecting but it certainly hadn't been the level of poverty I could see in the peeling blue wallpaper and threadbare blankets; the beds were nothing more than glorified cots.  But it was better than spending another minute with my father. Eventually I decided to make the best of things and use what little chance I might have to get to know some of the kids better before supper and took off the black blazer and knickers from the funeral in favor of my more comfortable blue-jean overalls and a red plaid shirt, kicked off my shoes and packed the discarded clothes into my trunk before starting down the stairs, rough and creaking under my bare feet. I heard voices below me and stopped to listen, a habit that Mother had almost encouraged and Father had never been able to cure me of.  The things you learned were just too interesting. 

"Did you see him?"

"Those were new shoes I tell you, and that blazer looked fitted!"

"Ms. Sara said he was a Riddle."

"So? What's that got to do with anything?"

"The Riddles are a rich family, they haven't never needed money. "

"I'll bet he's got enough money in that trunk of his to feed us on beef for a solid week!"

"He probably thinks he's better 'n us."

It was the kids I had met before, all huddled in a corner near the stairs; I was surprised at their resentment. I had come with very little, but apparently it was more than they had or were used to; I could see worn quality of their clothes, as if they'd been made over several times, and I could hear the hunger in their voices as they talked about me, though whether for what I had or my blood I couldn't be sure.  I didn't move, determined to get as much as I could out of their conversation.  

An older boy approached them, frowning a little.  

"What are you kids talking about?"

"The new kid, have you seen him?" The youth's frown grew puzzled.

"No, why?"

"He says his name's Tom Riddle.  He came in like he owned the place, with his shiny shoes and expensive clothes." That was George.  It was Rosie who spoke in my defense, curiously enough; she had seemed more the kind to just listen and follow, not hold her own opinion.

"That's not fair George, he did not act like he owned the place, he acted like a shy kid who had just lost his family, same as you did a few years ago.  You can't judge him by his clothes, he probably didn't get much more of a choice than we did when we came." The older boy, I hadn't met him when I came, grinned at her.

"Always the voice of reason and justice Rosie. Is this going to be another chick under your wing?" Rosie straightened to get every inch out of her six-year-old frame.

"He doesn't need my help, he looks to be the kind who takes care of himself. Besides, all I'm doing is giving him a fair chance Fritz." I decided it was time to announce my presence and leaned over the stair rail.

"I'll thank you for that, fire hair." They all stared up at me for a moment, unsure of what to say, before Gretchen put her hands on her hips and glared at me.

"It's not polite to listen to other people's conversations."  I offered a timid smile in response.

"You learn such interesting things though. Besides, it's only impolite if you get caught."  The older boy, Fritz,  laughed, brushing black fringe out of his eyes to regard me with a measuring, if still laughing, gaze.

"He speaks truth Gretch! This one's not going to timidly lower his eyes to you, oh no." He leaned over to look me in the eye, lifting my chin in his hand.  His gaze became more serious.

"I'm betting there's a lot more to you than a high vaulted name and pretty words kid.  You should just tell us, most of us don't like to have secrets kept from us."  He was whispering and my own blue-gray eyes met his winking black steadily; my past, heritage and talents were my own, and no one else's.

"Are you one of those who doesn't like kept secrets?" I asked calmly, as if he did not have the power to beat me into a pulp before anyone could stop him. He gave a wry grin.

"Not really, I'm curious, but I won't try to force anything out of you.  You should be careful though, Jack and George can be very persuasive, don't let them get a hold on you." And then he was gone, into the kitchen, leaving me to face my new 'family'.  They just regarded me stonily in silence. 

"Er… hallo." Apparently a friendly greeting didn't have any affect on stony silences.

"Okay then, I'll just go." I turned to follow Fritz's path to the kitchen, and no one stopped me.  In fact, no one said a word to me until the next morning and then it was 'pass the milk'.  

The silent treatment kept up for quite a while; with none of the kids I actually spent time with (Everyone over eleven worked most of the day, especially since it was summer) ever speaking directly to me, and tending to ignore me.  I got the feeling that they would have been much happier if I had never showed up and interrupted their lives.  The only good thing about it was that they weren't really going out of the way to make my life miserable or beat me up.  That changed one day when we were weeding the garden, or rather, Rosie, Becca, Davy and I were weeding the garden while Jack, George and Gretchen planned a game that would be suitably embarrassing to us to make it fun for them. I had quickly realized in the two weeks of my time there that those three, as the eldest, held the other three in awe and fear.  They didn't particularly care about me yet. 

It was then, on a humid summer afternoon, that I saw the snake for the first time.  It was a small garden snake, the kind that eats nothing bigger than a grasshopper and wouldn't bite a human unless it's life depended on it. Becca saw it first. 

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!! It's the snake!!"  she was backing away from her patch of vegetables fearfully, and Rosie and Davy weren't far behind her.  The older three had frozen for a second before they started to call encouragement.  

"That's it Becca, just back away slowly, it won't bite if you don't make any sudden movements." Gretchen called over, and soon George and Jack joined her.

"Come on Davy, just a little further, it'll be fine just keep walking."

"Rosie, don't look it in the eye, it'll think you're attacking it, just watch your feet."

I watched in amusement, this was ridiculous. All this fuss over one little snake.  Didn't they know anything? I moved over to where Becca had been weeding.  Jack noticed me first.

"Hey, what are you doing1 get away from there, that snake's dangerous!" I smiled as I studied the creature in front of me.  It followed me with its eyes cautiously, deciding whether I was a threat.  I could hear it mumbling under its breath.

_Screechy creature scream scream, scare prey, call shadow with big stick hit hit hurt. Who this, what want, stupid creature, no respect. _I grinned at this monologue, wondering how many times it had come in contact with my house-mates before this. Then I called over my shoulder to Jack, casually.

"It's only a garden snake.  It won't hurt anyone."  He sneered at me.

"It's a snake, snakes bite people, they're dangerous animals."

"Not all snakes, and only when you make them mad or scared."

"It tried to bite miss Jessica."

"She probably threatened it with a stick or something."  George's eyes widened.

"How did you know that?" I hesitated over whether to tell them, then decided to get it over with. It might make it easier for them to accept the few occasions when my emotions got out of hand…

"It told me." They just stared at me, then Davy spoke with all the eloquence of a four-going-on five child.

"Huh?" I sighed.

"I can talk to snakes, here I'll prove it to you." I crouched down and looked the snake in the eye, letting my mind fall into the sort of concentration it needed to call up the Parseltongue I'd inherited.

_May Jormungand smile on you._ The greeting was an old one, referring to the great serpent that lived in the sea, encircling the Earth and biting it's own tail.  It was the most formal greeting in the language. The little garden snake stopped swaying and muttering about the 'stupid creatures'.

_You understand? _I guess it had never met a human who spoke the language before, not surprising really.

_Yes. _

_You are human._

_Yes._

_It has been a long time since I have someone to talk to. Not many brothers here, too much noise and too little hunting. _

_I'll talk to you._

_Thank you, I will look forward to it, but now I must hunt._

I smiled again and turned to Jack, fighting the urge to pick my new friend up.  I had a feeling it wouldn't appreciate the action. 

"It's just hunting grasshoppers, and it's lonely." They just stared at me in disbelief. Jack's expression slowly becoming more murderous as I spoke, and George and Gretchen weren't looking much better.  The younger three were looking scared.  

"If I just talk to him once in a while I'm sure he'll leave you alone." Jack managed to spit something out, "Witchcraft." I cocked my head at him. 

"Well, not really, it's a perfectly sound language."

"You're a witch."

"Wizard, I suppose, really."  Jack looked ready to explode and George was quickly nearing that level.  Gretchen was shaking with suppressed fury and Davy, Rosie, and Becca were shrinking away, towards the house. 

"It's not that surprising you know, Mother was a witch." Jack lost it.

"You… bloody… DEMON!"  And he charged at me, with George not far behind.  They probably would have killed me then if it hadn't been for the snake.  As soon as they'd knocked me down it slithered over my shoulder and warned them off with bared fangs.  George ran for Miss Jessica, screaming.  When he came back out of the flat he was still babbling, and Jack was white with fright as the snake continued to eye him. 

"He's a demon Miss Jessica, he said he was a wizard and he was talking to the snake and then he set it on us Miss Jessica! It almost bit me!"   

*

Over the next few months I was to learn, quite forcefully, that the views of everyone in my new home on magic differed greatly from my father's.  It wasn't a weakness to them, it was something to be feared and despised and beaten down in any way possible.  Which was why, when I limped into the main room or up the stairs to bed or down to the kitchen in the morning, no one said anything except to offer the occasional snide comment. Miss Jessica was indifferent at best, and Miss Sara, for all her motherly ways, only dared to make sure I got at least one meal a day and to give me linen wrapping for my deeper cuts. Being a wizard as I was, as they never let me forget, meant that those cuts didn't stay for long.  But they still hurt almost as much as the comments meant to tear me down.  The older kids never did anything except for the one time that Fritz whispered to me that I had to get out of this myself, or I'd never have any respect and they'd just take more care in picking their times. The younger kids didn't hurt me, but they didn't help me either.  They just stood to one side and watched fearfully as Jack split my lip and George bloodied my nose; as Gretchen used her long fingernails to leave deep gouges in my skin.  

They seemed to believe that could wash out my magic with blood, or beat it out with bruises. 

After I had been there for almost a year and a half, when I turned eight, they grew bored with it a little, and the beatings came less frequently, perhaps once a week, though they still found way to make me uncomfortable; snitching my food, pouring water over my bed, slamming doors in my face and pinching me in church and at meals when we weren't supposed to make any sound.  

Life became more bearable for a time, with my being ignored for the most part and free to talk to the garden snake as long as I kept my voice down, out of earshot from my three personal bullies. Then they managed to break into my trunk.  

I had been out in the garden, planting this time and talking with the one real friend I had. When I entered the room we all shared I was too stunned to speak.  My clothes, few as they were, were spread all over the room, some had been torn or rubbed in dust and grime, the rest were tied in knots and scattered.  My baby blanket, the one true thing I had form my mother, had been torn to shreds and hung limply from bedposts like faded ribbon.  And in the middle of it all, sitting on a bed, were George and Jack.  They were reading my copy of Peter Pan.  It was a wonder they hadn't ripped it to pieces.  Something in me snapped, and I could feel the heat rising in my face, the tension in my hands as I struggled to keep some measure of composure. The curtains started twitching as if touched by an unfelt wind, and I knew it was perfectly calm outside.  That got me to clamp down in a hurry, no need to give them even more reason to pick on me. 

"What did you do?" I managed to get it out between grit teeth.

George looked up, a malicious smile on his face.   

"We were tired of you having secrets from us, so we decided to get even."

"Get even.  For what?"

"For your living with us, for having to put up with you, for allowing you all this privacy."  Jack said it with the air of one who was pointing out the obvious, a wronged innocent. It made me furious, but I had had too much early training for control over my emotions to let them get out of hand now.  I clenched my fists tighter and was saved from blowing my top and physically attacking them (something my father would have thought even more barbaric than magic) by Fritz's entrance into the room. He stared around at the mess, taking in the gloating smiles of the two boys on the bed and my obvious anger. He frowned at them, and it actually seemed to have an effect.  The smiles faltered for a second.

"Now you go too far.  If you're going to beat him up there's nothing I can do about it, he needs to learn to defend himself anyway, but when you break into his private things and destroy what little he has, you cross the line and I can't ignore it anymore."  Fritz, now fifteen and considered almost old enough to go off on his own,  grabbed them by their ears and dragged them down to the kitchen to be yelled at by Misses Jessica and Sara. I started cleaning up the mess, wondering as I collected the strips, if I could somehow weave the blanket back together. Fritz came back up.

"Don't worry about it, Miss Sara has gotten into a state and is going to make them clean it all up."  I looked up at him quickly, fearfully even. 

'That will only make them hate me more."

"That's probably true, but you do need to learn to defend yourself."  I looked at my feet. 

"I've gotten rather good at falling down, and taking hits. And pretending injury."   He raised one black eyebrow, clearly incredulous at my stubbornness.

"What is it that you have against fighting? Would it kill you to through a punch for once" I stared at the scraps in my hands for a moment, considering how much I wanted to tell him. Over the months I had told him bits and pieces of my life before. 

"My father… he didn't like magic, said it was barbaric, a weakness.  Cheating kind of.  And fistfights were worse, he always said that lowering myself to the level of a common street brawler was the worst thing I could do. He may not have been the best father, or the most loving, but he was the only father I had, and he taught me about pride.  Nothing else matters." Fritz looked thoughtful.

"I thought you hated your father."

"I do."

"Then why are you still following his ideals?"

"Because they're all I have now. And they make sense to me."

"You'd have a lot less trouble if you swallowed that pride of yours every once in a while." It was my turn to be incredulous. Forget my heritage and pride? And not in being a Riddle but being a Slytherin.  I didn't give two bits about being a Riddle, but I knew that my magical blood conveyed just as much, if not more, pride as the Muggle family. I managed to look properly insulted and contemptuous when I replied.

"You don't know anything about it."

"I know plenty about swallowing pride."

"You don't know about living by pride."

"Is that what you're doing then? Just living on your pride and nothing else?"

"I don't have anything else anymore." That seemed to shut him up.  

I was right of course, to say that Jack and George would hate me even more once they were forced to clean up the mess they'd made, but I dealt with it, and I got really good at dodging. 

My pride was something I'd never give up, and I continued to stand up to them, to talk back and stand straight under the insults thrown my way.  They would get their justice one day; I wouldn't have pride alone forever.  Someday, someday I would have power. Enough power to make them all regret ever touching me. Enough power to prevent anyone from hurting me ever again.   

I wouldn't let anyone step on me and get away with it forever.

**Notes:** Poor Tom! And I haven't even really gotten into his mind yet, only starting to get there.  And yes I know he really shouldn't pay so much attention to what his father said, but pride became a big issue for him with all the bullying and he really doesn't have a whole lot else right.  A seven year old is in no shape to fight a gang on nine and ten year olds. As for telling them about his magic, they'd find out eventually anyway, and it'd be better (I think) for him to tell them than for him to just shatter something out of the blue one day. He didn't expect that sort of retaliation because he's never had to tell anyone before; his grandparents never knew and his father just discouraged it. Tom Riddle sr. knew enough to realize it couldn't be changed. Next chapter brings Destiny into the picture.  I hope you liked it, please leave a review! I love them!

    


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